Ranulf gave a shout of gladness while a tear rolled down Beollan’s cheek to fall on his hands, folded in his lap, where it sparkled. Apparently grief wasn’t the only way to get diamonds from a dragon. “Thank you, sire,” Beollan said softly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Jusson said, his black eyes with their gold ring reflecting the fireplace’s fire. Or, considering all the revelations of today, maybe it wasn’t a reflection. “Now,” the king asked, “does anyone want to intercede for Gawell and Ednoth?”
Laughter exploded, dark and rough. Or maybe it was a growl. There were plenty of bared teeth. Including my own.
“I’ll take that as a no.” Without going through Thadro, Jusson spoke to the guards standing on either side of the open doorway. “Bring them in.”
One of the guards hurried off and a few moments later returned with Peacekeeper Chadde and Captain Javes, followed by the same mob of guards escorting Gawell and Ednoth. The mayor and head merchant were shoved in front of Jusson. Javes and Chadde must’ve prevented folks from pounding on them for they pretty much looked as they did previously—no new scrapes or bruises anywhere. However, Gawell was no longer wearing the chain of office; it instead hung from Chadde’s hand. With a small bow, the peacekeeper set it on Jusson’s desk.
“It’s not cursed, Your Majesty,” Chadde said, her face its usual calm. “We asked Cais.”
“Ah,” Jusson said. He picked up the chain, holding it to the light.
“Is Cais also a mage, sire?” an aristo asked, his voice tentative.
“No,” Jusson said. “He is the keeper of my hearth.”
Keeper of the hearth? I jerked around in my chair and met Cais’ gaze. He gave me a dry smile, his eyes flashing purple in the afternoon sun coming through the study windows.
“You’ve never seen a hob before, Rabbit?” Wyln asked, sounding amused.
“Another discussion for another time,” Jusson said before I could respond. Once more settling back into his chair, Jusson again folded his hands over his stomach, the mayor’s chain looped on his fingers, and thrust his feet out before him, his gaze not on the two before him, but on the town elders.
“All right,” the king said. “Start at the beginning and tell me everything.”
Chapter Forty-one
We buried Menck’s ashes along with the rest of the dead on a mountain lea. It wasn’t the same meadow where I’d met Laurel six months and a lifetime ago. That was a sunny, open space above the timberline that overlooked the entire valley. This lea, lower in the mountains, was surrounded by trees that, despite the bright fall foliage, made it a dark, secret place. It was where a young doyen had come across men from a nearby village beating to death someone whose only crime was not being human.
And now, several decades later, Dyfrig was back. Garbed in his vestments, he was setting out his implements of blessing on his portable altar. Next to him on the ground was a double row of earthen jars. The graves had already been dug, with neat little mounds of dirt beside each hole, two gravediggers standing by with their shovels to fill them again, their faces properly respectful. The doyen’s face, though, was as dark and closed as the lea—as it had been for the last couple of days.
But then, I hadn’t been Master Chatty myself.
The lea was crowded with folk: Jusson, Thadro and the royal guards, nobles and their armsmen, a complement of soldiers and senior staff from the garrison, all of the town elders and officials, Peacekeeper Chadde and some of her Watch, and many of the regular townspeople, like Albe the blacksmith and his apprentices. Laurel and Wyln were present too, as were Beollan, Ranulf and Rosea. In her second day of the five-day purification rite, the former player, clad in the white sacking of the penitent, had her hair pulled back into a severe braid, her feet bare and on her forehead the rune of uncovering discernment had been drawn in charcoal by Dyfrig. Despite the trappings of the Church though, there was a wide space around her, and hands hovered over weapons, ready to pull them at the slightest hint of hell. But Rosea didn’t seem aware of the poised violence. Standing sheltered between her brother and great-uncle, she twisted her fingers together as her eyes went to the jars of ashes before traveling to Dyfrig at the altar, then over to me. As soon as she met my gaze, hers went skittering away.
Another person who wouldn’t be skipping through the wildflowers singing summer is a-coming anytime soon.
Jusson was also gathering his share of wide space and nervous glances, but that had nothing to do with demon possession. The investigation into Gawell and Ednoth’s affairs had started predictably with accounts of petty frauds and malfeasance growing into larger ones as Governor Lord Ormec’s health and ability to oversee his territory declined. Jusson at first remained unruffled; it was a familiar story, and one that had played out on a much broader scale last spring, directed by the king’s once-close friend, Lord Gherat of Dru. But when the elders got to the part of the closing of Eastgate, Jusson’s air of detached interest had evaporated. Fast.
“They had what?” he demanded, rising slowing from his chair. The town elders shrank back in theirs. Gawell and Ednoth, though, remained staring sullenly at the floor.
“A letter from you, Your Majesty,” Chadde said calmly, though her gray eyes gleamed. “It stated that, due to reports from the garrison of bandit activity, the Eastgate was to be closed and a new gate opened. It had your seal.”
“Ebner, were you in on this?” Jusson asked, his voice a harsh whisper.
“No!” Commander Ebner’s mustache rose in exclamation points. “The gate was already closed when I arrived, Your Majesty.”
“This was before Commander Ebner’s time, Your Majesty,” Chadde confirmed. “Commander Boschel was in charge. I believe he left the army soon after, though. Came into some money, I understand.”
Ednoth had inherited property—including the two buildings where the snipers had waited to ambush us—in what was then the undesirable part of town. Scheming to raise his property values, Ednoth, with the collusion of Gawell and the old garrison commander, forged the letter from the king, closing the old gate while opening a new gate right where Ednoth’s property was located. The new gate brought prosperity to Ednoth and his cohorts, while the closure of the old caused that section of town to wither. Those who had suffered decline and loss blamed it on the capricious carelessness of the king, though many of the town elders knew better. They bought property themselves in the soon-to-be-revitalized part of town.
And when Slevoic arrived with his smuggling ring, he found a ready-made coterie that he could slip into like a pair of comfortable slippers, complete with warehouses, stables, safe houses and easy access to and from the new, ironically named Kingsgate.
Remaining on his feet, Jusson had listened to the end of it, the heat of his rage rising off of him in waves. He then walked swiftly for the study door, shouting orders and taking Cais with him. Next we knew, we were on the move. All the way across town to the old posting inn that stood in the shadow of the old gate, where the king personally bargained with the stunned innkeeper for the let of the entire inn for the remainder of the royal stay in Freston.
And Captain Javes led a determined search of Ednoth’s properties, turning up all sorts of interesting things, including a small casket. Now, standing with Thadro at Jusson’s back, I saw Javes hand Jusson the casket, and the king opened it to stare down at the false royal seal, its gold glittering bright in the gloom of the clearing. Then, closing it with a snap, he gave the casket to Thadro, who carefully placed it in a pocket.
(A search of Gawell’s properties caused Dyfrig to place them all under Church edict until he could deal with what had been found in them.)